who do you trust the most?
by SparklesInTheSun
Summary: America and England, influenced by the aftermath of World War II. Alfred and Elizabeth, the victims of the unresolved tension between them... "If I can't trust you now, Lizzie," he whispers, "who can I trust?" US/fem!UK. Human and nation names used.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hey there, Sparkles here. Creative writing prompt, "Who do you trust the most?" created this US/fem!UK fic. Planning on having about 3 chapters. Feel free to constructively criticize any historical inaccuracies or just plain wrong assumptions I've made here; I did my research, but the main focus of the story is going to be between people, not nations.

***Head canon states that a meeting of just nation-tans was called right after Germany surrendered in WWII to state crimes and call punishments. It may sound odd, but just go with it.***

And also, if there are any willing nit-pickers or grammar sticklers out there, could you keep an eye on my tenses? It's all supposed to be present. If you catch anything, I'll either fix it gratefully or clarify it if it was intentional.

Let me know if I've got an interesting start!

* * *

Who do you trust the most?

As a country, there are certain things in your history that are undeniable. Certain consequences, certain connections. Ties you can never fully break.

For England, she's been here for ages. That could be anyone. For America, there is only one.

It's these sorts of things that keep her up at night.

Not that that's the only reason for why she couldn't sleep, what with the after effects of war and bombings and all.

No, it's the nightmares that keep her awake—America is what she thinks about when she _is_ awake, and alone. And scared of the terrors her mind holds for her, scared of what news the dawn will bring.

Not that she lets them control her, or anything; no, Brits are nothing of the sort, are they? They won the war and everything. They put themselves back together and carried on.

…_with America's help._

And that's when she starts thinking.

It's those incontrovertible truths, those undeniable ties. The pain, the tears, the heartache. The way he'd picked her up so carefully amongst the rubble, the way he'd treated her like she would shatter, like glass.

The way that, after all these years, he's still picking her up and putting her back together, even though she cuts him with her glass shards. Even though the job hurts him to do, he still does it.

At least he knows it's hurting her, too.

She frowns slowly and gently rubs her chest, the fragmented burns, cuts and scars from the Blitz through the bandages. Even though the attacks were at the start of the war, they haven't healed, and here's to hoping that they close up and fade away soon. But the ache doesn't go away, and she doesn't know if it's because of them or because of him.

* * *

"Come on, England, you need to go home."

"_All _of us need to go home, America!" France snaps irritably through the pain from his leg. "But we still have work to do!"

America rolls his eyes, out of weariness more than annoyance. "Then _I'll_ do it! She needs to go home, and you need to go home, too," he responds as he eyes France's leg—snapped clean in two, right at the knee. But that's not the only thing he's suffering from. Pride is a wound it takes decades to heal, and he'll need a lot of healing for this.

Ah, well—the war in Europe is over, and now they can hand things off to their leaders. More or less.

"—p-please, just let me _see him_!" Italy sobs as she's dragged away by two guards taking her down the hall, the opposite way from where they're keeping Germany. America sighs. Europe is a _complete_ mess. It's on these days when he wishes he just hadn't gotten involved with European affairs, but after what they'd seen—those emaciated skeletons barely crawling out of Auschwitz—he knows he'd had no choice. He had to join the fight. And he was still fighting, he couldn't even believe he was standing across from Japan at the meet to dissolute the Axis—Japan, who's suddenly trying to talk—

"—just allow Italia-san one visit—"

"No, she can't have a bloody visit!" England finally snaps and it startles him because it's in _his_ defense, _his _enemy otherwise she would have no quarrel with Japan and she really shouldn't be yelling like that with her chest injury—

"—your bloody 'friendship' DESTROYED the modern world!" she screams, her voice shrill and unforgiving, face twisting into a sneer. "You instigated _mass murder_ and yet you _sit there_ with the_ gall_, the bloody arrogant _nerve_ to demand a _visit_with the man who _started it_!"

"England!" someone shouts and there's a hand on her swollen wrist from flying the bomber and all she can see is red rage, _so much_ rage, pent up pain and exhaustion and agony, the injustice of it all nearly making her mind go numb, how he's demanding to be seen when all she can hear is the screams of the mourning finding bodies all over London—

"_Elizabeth!_" he hisses and she's tugged back from the table, back to Earth. "_Enough_."

She's panting heavily from exertion, her chest aching with every breath as America's warmth radiates out next to her, her mind dully registering a power and command in his voice that she's never heard before. She takes a painfully clarifying breath and looks up, emerald eyes darting accusingly across the long table to Japan.

Japan takes a concise breath and meets all their eyes for one second each, assessing what must be the same look of exhaustion, accusation, betrayal on their faces. Assessing the way that America is standing behind England so closely, yet somehow managing to make himself appear to be in front of her, protecting her, the gentility of his hand cradling her broken wrist to his chest contrasting brutally with the fierce look of warning in his eyes, a warning directed at him, with a very clear meaning behind it…

He nods silently and takes his leave, hands folded customarily as he calmly retreats without a word—the loss of his friends is deep, but they lost their war, and he has battle strategies to plan. America eyes him warily until he leaves, and everyone breathes again.

America's breathing hard, trying to expel the tension amongst them as England's anger dissipates—she's too tired, been through too much without time to build up her energy—or her country. They're all tired of war, but the Blitz just annoyed her—if it had actually achieved some strategic purpose, she might have some grudging respect for it, but mindless destruction only caused her anger, and pain. And speaking of pain…

"England," he breathes into her ear and she is painfully aware of his proximity to her person and a strange stickiness in her chest, thick like mucus or some unresolved tension.

America swallows, his eyes wide with worry. "England, you chest is bleeding again…" he mumbles quietly, trying not to draw any more attention to her.

_Oh._ She sucks in a sharp breath and looks down, mutely noticing the soft pink spots appearing through the thick white bandages wrapped around her torso and the sudden loss of body heat as America lets her wrist fall from his grasp. She twists away slightly, protesting wearily.

"C'mon…just let me change them, real quick, England, come on…" he continues worriedly, trying to coax her into acquiescence.

She frowns, turning her head away, unable to meet concerned cerulean pools through thickly cut wire frames. "America…you can't," she mumbles embarrassedly, mentally noting the extent of the damage, how high up the bandages went. "…just let the doctors do it," she finishes, eyes shooting up to meet his once, to make sure he understands.

America frowns resignedly, and she duly notes how odd the expression looks on his youthful face as he turns and exits the room, looking for the female nurse that had bandaged her earlier.

France, China, and Russia all disperse, back to their war-torn countries, political meetings with their leaders and time to assess the damage. They'll meet again, England is sure of it; the actual fighting may be over, but mutual destruction from the war will last forever.

She doesn't like being alone with them, sometimes; most times she doesn't mind it, but most times America is annoyingly right by her side, full of remarkably stupid ideas and his oh-so-boundless optimism. And sometimes she's angered by him, exponentially so, how he's so _unaffected_, so far removed from all that they've been through, how he came out of the Revolution stronger than ever while she had to leave her Empire behind—

The door slams open again and she's jilted out of her familiar misery as America walks in, and she regards him warily, subconscious apprehension about her chest combined with the current war, their past wars, how she alternately loved and hated him in general, how she never really knew how she felt about him…

Of the relationship between England and America, one could say any number of things. And even though most of America's actions could be defined as rash or hot-headed, England knows that deep down, she would follow him anywhere. So her next course of action shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did.

"The nurses have been dismissed already," America reports, breathless. "And the doctors are all from the Reds," he adds quietly. _Shit._ Her already painful chest pounds slightly harder as the thought of Russia's Soviet doctors pawing at her draws into more focus. She knows how America feels about them, and she can't deny that she might feel the same way. Asking France is out of the question, for obvious reasons, even though she doubts he'd do anything…China is most suited for this kind of thing anyway, but being alone with him, with any of them, right now…

America meets her eyes.

"Who do you trust more, me or them?"

In a split second, her decision is made. She exhales harder and grabs his wrist tightly, surprising him. "Just get me out of here," she whispers.

* * *

**A/N:** Please review and let me know what you think! I have the whole story written, but new chapters depend on readers' feedback, so shoot me a review! :)


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn't know why she did it, Elizabeth thinks as she turns slowly and unbuttons the basic cotton shirt she'd put on. _It really was just the lesser of two evils, right? _She casts her gaze to the floor as Alfred turns on the light he needs to see and grabs some scissors, bandages, and medical tape, courteously leaving her side of the room in quasi-darkness. But at the same time, the question seemed so inane—did she _trust_ him, really, Alfred?

She looks up at him as she thinks it, the perpetual frown creasing her worry-lined brow. She swallows as she sits reservedly on top of the high table. _Well, we're about to find out_.

Alfred turns and stops slightly, most likely taken aback by all the mismatched purple spread across the pure, soft alabaster—_but is he staring at the bruises, _Elizabeth wonders_, or is he staring at _me_?_

She blushes at the thought, and he gives her a sad smile, _wishing he didn't have to do this_, she knows as he leans to either side of her to set things on the table. She has a _right_ to feel so apprehensive, she thinks as the heat from his body radiates off of him in waves. _I mean, we haven't been so close to each other since_—

Elizabeth inhales sharply as she notices how close his face is to hers, drawing her attention and anxiety. Her eyes follow him warily as he opens his mouth to speak, and the tension between them is tangible as they simultaneously realize that the only thing separating him from her naked chest is a whole roll of bandages and two strips of tape.

Alfred swallows. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, and looks down to pull off the first strip.

She gasps involuntarily as she hears the tape rip, and she's not sure if it's from her pain or his proximity. The temperature in the room increases rapidly with every strap he unrolls, moving closer and then pulling back, his strong, muscled arms wrapping around her. _Tension_ and _proximity_ and _hot hot hot_ and suddenly it's drowning her, worse than the bombings or even the Great Fire, as all she can think of is what she had seen in the mirror—_my God, the scars, ooh, they're so bad—what's he going to think when he sees them?_ Elizabeth didn't have very…_pronounced_ breasts in the first place, _hardly any at all_, and she tries so hard to shake it but all she can think is _no no no_ _I'm not good enough for him_—

Her eyes fly open and she grabs his wrist roughly, reflexes flying into action as he's about to unroll the last sticky red strip. His motion forward is halted and he leans in slightly, before pulling away.

"Lizzie? What's wrong?"

She feels like she's dying—his voice sounds so distorted through the heat, so deep and velvet—_and he called me Lizzie. Oooh God, what must he be thinking, that made him call me _Lizzie_?_

It was the unspoken rule, the preconceived commandment—he'd gained so many things after their war, but he'd lost all right, all privilege to call her _Lizzie_. And now that he did…

_This is insanity, _Alfred thinks—no,_ pants_—heavily. His throat has gone dry and his head feels so fuzzy—_if only she knew how touching her at all sends shivers down my spine_—

He tries not to picture it, to have Lizzie like this, panting and wanton and hot, _so_ hot, _her skin is on fire, everywhere I touch_—and yes, he _knows _he's not supposed to call her Lizzie but it's all he can call her now, it's like they're no longer _America _and _England_ in his mind—_oh_, in his mind, that traitorous little place, was it wrong for him to imagine her hair, sweeping across his stomach?

He pushes it all back, to have one moment of clarity to ask her, "What's wrong?" and he thinks it's the biggest mistake he's ever made, because her eyes fly open and her breathing gets labored and all he can think of is _honey, you're dying,_ as that last thin strip stuck together with so much blood falls away from her breasts and he can't help his eyes from glancing down to look at all the destruction the Blitz had done to her.

His eyes just widen and he breathes, "_My God," _as she gives a horrified moan at the mess. Pale white scars that are older than him by centuries are completely obscured by the torn red skin, black burn patches and bloody, bloody cuts just elongated across her chest. The cuts are trickling blood, red rivers down the valley of her breasts to her gently shaped abs to the ribs that are standing out a little bit more than they should be.

Alfred closes his eyes and tries to keep calm, the heat that was drowning him now colder than ice. The tension is still thick between them, and his traitorous mind still wants to go to bed with her, but now to take care of her, to bandage her up and carry her home and hide her in blankets, away from the world. This woman has been the one constant in his life, even through all the wars and their heartache. Elizabeth has always prided herself on staying on top, never letting the waves knock her down, but now he's seeing her in a way he's never seen her before, and that strange sticky feeling makes him want to both lash out with rage and curl up and cry. _People are just _ignorant_, can't they see what they're doing to her?!_

He's breathing so hard it hurts, and _my God, it has to hurt her too, I'm surprised I can't see her lungs moving_ from all the combined destruction. Her chest bleeds freely as her people's tears flow, both of relief and of sadness. His hands are shaking as he tries to reach for a towel to wipe off the blood.

"You…should have gotten…stitches," Alfred breathes out shakily as he reaches for some salve, stopped by her words and her hand.

"To what point?" Elizabeth breathes just as unsteadily. "It'll scar anyway. Let them see," she whispers defiantly, and he glances up from the hand on his arm to the look in her eyes—they seem different than earlier. There is pain, yes, but also confidence now, and pride—_let others say nothing of Brits and their pride_—and something darker in those jade pools that makes his stomach clench, something dark and hidden that he's damned if he recognizes but he's wanted her to look at him like that for decades, maybe more. Looks she's only ever given France, to her shame, or maybe Spain, when he was an empire. Alfred's seen her fighting in battles and knows that look in her eyes—that deep part of her soul that was crying out for vengeance, and that traitorous part of her body that wanted to use him to get it.

_For vengeance_, his mind repeats, but she's done with fighting, and they'd won the war—_so why does she still feel like she's—_

"Why did you yell at Japan?" Alfred breathes, to get to the point of what had started this insanity. He feels like there's just nothing between them anymore, _not just literally_ as he pushes the blush down, but no barriers or tensions, forgotten battles or past wars. It's so bare between them, no walls or cloudy emotions or mental filters to stop their true thoughts from escaping or past desires from making themselves known.

Elizabeth sighs despairingly, tired eyes revealing her tortured soul, the century-long fight of _I-love-him-I-love-him-not_ that she knows is about to slip smoothly from her grasp.

"Because he's keeping you away from me," she whispers brokenly into the silence, still not knowing why she does it, but doing it all the less. "The rest of our war is over, but you're still fighting _him_, and you don't deserve that," she finishes defiantly, that faint glimmer in her eyes matching the one from earlier. "Not at all."

Understanding dawns in his crystal blue gaze, mixing with glimmers of that ever-present optimism and darkening shades of something Elizabeth doesn't want to name. Alfred realizes that she's still fighting _through him_, that she won't rest until his war in the Pacific is over and done with. That, though England came out the victor, Lizzie's spoils are written as clearly here, on her chest, as they will be in history books. That she wants _payback_, the final say. To know that they've truly _won_.

Maybe it's revenge, or the last vestiges of her Empire…but whatever drive in her that still wants to claim the world, to make her name known all throughout, flows out of her and into him just as simply as the oxygen they share. He exhales and closes his eyes, leaning his forehead down to hers. The heat dulls the flickers of static that otherwise would have sent shockwaves through their nerves, instead letting thick drops of heat go sluicing through their veins in their place, leaving them with only tranquility, complacency. Finally, no screaming matches or harsh reprimands—just total, absolute trust.

A wrecking ball, of sorts, or a wave knocking hard upon the shore.

She closes her eyes and they breathe the same breaths as all of her walls come crashing down around them, simultaneously loud and utterly silent explosions leaving them with…_what_? This tension won't last, Elizabeth knows this as well as Alfred. What they're feeling now only exists in this room, that once they leave, everything will go back to normal…Alfred doesn't know why, but while they're here…_when in Rome…_

She won't take the salve, he knows, and she'll more than likely refuse the bandages if he asks her outright. He spares a slight chuckle for her stubbornness. _Damn English pride_…time for an epic plan.

Elizabeth notices his laughter, frowning adorably at him. "What's so funny?" she murmurs, her breath giving the slightest hitch at his feather-light touch of her chest.

Her reaction creases his brow as he gently guides a knuckle to her chin to tip her face upwards. "Just trust me, okay?" he mumbles through the heat as he reaches for the damp towel with his other hand, putting his plan into action.

She makes a beautifully non-cognizant face as she meets his eyes, drowsy from pain or the heat. "What—"

"Trust me," he breathes as he captures her lips with his.

* * *

**A/N:** IT IS EXTREMELY IMPORTANT THAT YOU ANSWER THIS: This question will dictate how the story ends. Do you think, from an artistic/critic perspective, that smut would ruin the story? Would you prefer that the rating stay T? I am game to anything. The ball is in your court; note that I will not be able to update this story if you don't review and tell me what you want to see. So please review and tell me! ~Sparkles


	3. Chapter 3

"_Trust me," he breathes as he captures her lips with his._

She moans slightly, surprised, but otherwise does not protest. He waits a beat before gently blotting her still-bleeding chest with the towel though her distraction, trying to clean up what he can.

Her breath hitches in his mouth as he works, but his one hand calms her down with soft strokes to her shoulder as the other moves inch by inch.

Elizabeth doesn't know what he's doing but decides not to question it, thinking rather that she should appreciate serendipity as it happens and not question the power that this room seems to hold over them, or its ability to make 200 years of history evaporate into thin air.

Or rather thick air, she decides as Alfred's tongue comes out to play with hers.

He tries his hardest to breathe as the atmosphere gets even more intense, threatening to pull him under while he's trying to work. _Heroes don't get distracted, damnit! Heroes get their jobs done. And possibly rewards later for doing good work…_

Things start getting crazy when her arms move to wrap around his shoulders, and he has to break off the kiss or risk falling off of a steep cliff into no return.

"Okay," he pants, moving his hands to take hers off his shoulders. "Okay."

"Mm?" she answers uninterestedly, following his mouth when he pulls away, barely lucid in the heat. "What? Moving too fast for you?" she grins cheekily, lazily, tossing out the barest cockney accent with her tongue tip peeking out seductively.

Alfred groans and all previous thought and reason vanish. Elizabeth knows her eyes are shamefully eclipsed with raw desire, but she's past caring. His are too, and she can't deny that it turns her on a little bit more than it should.

Her eyes follow his mouth as he grins and leaves her hands resting on his biceps to rub salve over her chest.

"Damn you and your sexy accent!" he whines, frustrated, shaking his head slightly at his own weakness.

She raises an eyebrow, the expression she's giving him instantly telling him that he's completely at her mercy.

"You think my accent's sexy?" she delivers smoothly into the heat, graceful yet relaxed like a cat, and for a second, she has all the power in the world.

He swallows and ducks his head down to focus on her mismatched chest (which he's beginning to think is more and more beautiful by the second) and hides his grin in the semi-dark as he wipes off his hands and reaches for the new roll of bandages.

"Damn, Lizzie, let a man have his secrets," he rumbles playfully, and she can feel the vibrations deep in his chest as his rough velvet voice reaches her ears. She gives the barest of smirks and tries not to focus on what his hands are doing, concentrating on the tight corded muscles and flat plains of his chest instead of the ribbons of pain streaming along her nerves.

His voice _has_ gotten deeper, she realizes, but just a little. The heat has wiped away the pain she usually feels when she remembers the bubbly blonde angel of her memory, leaving in its place a sort of dulled awareness, an ability to catalog detail about him and store it at face value without attaching it to something else. _He has to be at least 18 now,_ she thinks slowly as he kisses her again, her mouth opening easily and their tongues tangling delicately until Alfred pulls away. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels the familiar pride stabbing at her, saying something along the lines of, _the nerve of him, thinking he can kiss me at any time! _affrontedly. But the heat swirls it away, and she's left to contemplate. This isn't the first time they've shared kisses, but never before have they kissed with this much passion, this much _heat_ between them. The only really similar time she could think of was…

"In London," she breathes before he kisses her a third time, "when we declared victory in Europe…" she continues as he pulls away again and resumes bandaging up her chest.

_Barely a week ago, _he thinks readily as he says, "Yeah, what about it?" and looks down at his work.

She blinks at him softly and raises a hand to caress his face, feeling the soft peach fuzz on his cheek, coaxing him to meet her eyes.

"Why did you kiss me?" she asks once he does, and his eyes widen as he swallows. There is no accusation in her gaze, only a question, and he finds he does not know how to answer.

_It's so much easier to lie,_ he thinks as his hands still. _But what would she say to the truth?_

"You could say…I just got caught up in the moment, when I did it," he intones cautiously, imagining all the happy couples swarming Trafalgar Square, all the military men sweeping women off their feet. Elizabeth inhales and exhales heavily, Alfred's hands on her chest moving up and down at the motion. She isn't sure how she feels about that. _Getting caught up in the moment…would be so typical of him_, she thinks as their cheeks brush together. _But that moment's all I've thought about for _days_…_

"…but it'd be a lie to say, it wasn't what I wanted," he breathes finally, letting the weight of his true desire tumble heavily down around them. She thinks of how fluid it'd been, how quick, how hot-tempered and passionate it was. How, if they'd been inclined to continue, how easy it would have been to go farther…

"I would have taken you to bed, if you'd have let me," he whispers softly into her ear, his train of thought matching hers, his honesty so open and velveteen in the heat, and she knows the only thing stopping her had been her indecision about her chest, but now that that's gone…

"_I would have taken you to bed, if you'd have let me."_

_Would you have?_ she wonders into the dark, and the ache in her chest starts throbbing again as she stares hopelessly at her kitchen table and strokes her own shoulder softly.

Because he'd patched her up and kissed her again, so many kisses they'd shared in that room, until the tape had pulled taut against the bandages and they both realized that they had to leave, leave the heat and trust and complacency, go back to cold and hard and _broken_. And she'd dreaded going back to her country, dreaded dealing with the pain and destruction; but most of all, she sniffs, she'd dreaded having to leave him behind, the warm, perfect, _trusting_ soul in that room, neither a boy nor a man, just a touch, just a whisper. Just a touch, just a whisper against her breast, as if he could fix her up and take away the pain with his words, or his mere presence. Just a wish, just an idea, just a thought…

And that's when she stops thinking.

She startles herself out of her memory, finishes her tea quickly, and puts the dishes in the sink, for something to keep her occupied tomorrow. She has meetings to plan for, rebuilding to oversee, and going over that plan on what to do with Berlin…

She doesn't know if it's a comfort to realize that Alfred—no, _America_—wasn't preparing for any of that across the pond. And yet she couldn't bring herself to hate him. It was her one secret, she never could. The ties between England and America were stronger than ever now, she supposes, but the only thing she really wants between _Elizabeth _and _Alfred_ is that oh-so-seductive heat.

The heat, she realizes; was it really heat? Was it really that total compliance for him to have his way with her, or was it that she trusted him in whatever he would have done to her, regardless?

Ah well. Things to be contemplated tomorrow night, and the night after that, and the night after that…

She sighs.

_Do I _trust_ him, really?!_

She scoffs and heads back to bed.

* * *

A/N: And that's a wrap! Thanks for everybody who reviewed, I really enjoyed writing this! If you have any comments, critiques, anything, please tell me!

Question: What was your favorite line from the entire story? Be a dear and let me know!


	4. Extra

"I don't know how we'll win...unless we do something drastic..." Alfred's eyes turn unfocused, distracted.

"You'll win," Elizabeth breathes knowingly through the static. "I have faith in you."

He sighs and looks up at her worriedly, _wanting to prove her right_.

"You're the only one."

"Seems to be common, doesn't it," she smiles slightly, as if her chest wasn't bleeding out in the open, as if they were the only two nations in the world who really mattered.

His gaze turns contemplative as he remembers what he'd said to her not an hour earlier. He sighs wistfully as he rests his forehead gently on hers, closing his eyes.

"If I can't trust you now, Lizzie," he whispers, "who can I trust?"


End file.
